Seven Little Reasons
by ARedLetterDay
Summary: There's the story everybody knows: an ancient evil breaks soil, threatens the very fabric of reality, and a hero arises to stop it. The hero is always successful, the evil is always vanquished. But in these days, who's to say? Link is a farm boy handy with a sword, the King faces a bandit threat, and somewhere, magicians gather to protect what they can. A storm's gathering. . .


"Huh? – mm, nothin' ma jus' mmm." the bandit shifted against the rock wall, eyes opening for a brief moment to survey the landscape. Satisfied that all was well, he drifted into a slumber. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the rustling of bushes and figured it a stray animal, hunting for shelter from the coming storm. If he hadn't been forced to guard the entrance to the hideout, he'd probably be tucked away in his hut with a mug of ale to warm his loins. "- I told ya, ma, I wanna jus' . . ." he trailed off, finally unable to resist sleep's grasp.

Thoughts of home were his last. An arrow flew from the darkness and pierced his skull, killing him instantly. He fell forward, kicking up a cloud of dust, which the archer used to slip into the cave's entrance undetected. Thunder boomed in the distance, like the sound of war drums.

{ * * * }

"Hm? You say bandits have been moving closer to the kingdom's borders?" the King leaned back in his large chair, sighing.

"Yes. I fear if we tarry about discussing the politics of the bandit's encroachment, we'll have a full-scale invasion on our hands. Nothing we can't handle, _surely_, my liege, but a worrisome problem nonetheless." Koto gave a small smile, which the King returned. "There have been reports, too, Sire, that the young boy Link has taken it upon himself to attack the lair."

"The mute farm boy? Surely, you jest. He can hardly handle a pitchfork, let alone a sword! I've seen it myself, he flails about and shouts like he's a little slow in the head!" the King's lieutenant, Rinne Garrsh, stepped forward, seeing it necessary to put the magician-assistant in his place.

"And, I suppose, then, that Tache's loss was a fluke? As I recall, you never bested the Captain in battle either, does that make you as slow and mute as the farmhand?" Koto leaned back, locking his fingers together. There was a moment where the entire throne room was silent, and the two regarded each other with an almost casual indifference. _I'm sure you think I'm joking, Rinne, but I can assure you I'm not._ He thought, itching for the lieutenant's response.

"Bah. What do you know about warfare, anyways?" Rinne's one good eye squinted, and he grunted, stepping back to the King's side. "Buncha cowards if you ask me."

King Daphnes sighed, rolling his hands in impatience. "Which, as I recall, nobody did. You're talented with a sword to be sure but good Goddess your mouth runs on more than Zora's River! Koto, you say the boy is on his own in a lair full of bandits?"

Koto took pleasure in Rinne's defeat, but left the gloating for another time. "Yes. I do think he can handle himself, though I can't help but wonder what his intentions are. For all of Rinne's flaws, he is right about one thing. Link is a simple farmhand – his only experience with the blade comes from Tache's training, it's a wonder he even knew about the bandit's lair in the first place."

Daphnes, the gargantuan of a man he was, stood with gusto. He began to pace back and forth. "Perhaps his actions are not his own."

It was Rinne who spoke this time, his own confidence renewed. "You're not suggesting. . . ?"

The King nodded, turning towards Koto. "This means the boy must not succeed in his endeavor. If he does, well. . ."

Both Koto and Rinne swallowed their breaths. They stood at opposite ends of the royal spectrum, but here they remained united by fear. Their eyes locked, and a bond seemed to form, though Koto, the magician and purveyor of ancient relics, was the only one to notice it.

After a while of suffering the silence, the King nodded, sitting back in the throne and placing his large arm on the table in front of him. His hand, scarred and worn with age, twitched with anxiety. He hated decision-making, always had. Even worse were bad decisions, the ones that caused his chest to ache. But it had to be done.

He sucked in a breath, heavy with guilt, finally speaking, "Prepare your troops, Rinne. The boy must die before the moon rises." _Or we all die._ He thought of adding, ultimately deciding against it.


End file.
